


Whether you take the doughnut hole as a blank space or as an entity unto itself

by middlemarch



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Conversations, Domestic, F/M, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Outtakes, Season 1, Slow Romance, Vignette, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27348574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: There was a word for how he was behaving, just one she hadn't ever applied to him. Gentle.
Relationships: Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Whether you take the doughnut hole as a blank space or as an entity unto itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts), [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts).



The fragrance of the doughnuts filled Sam’s car before Ruth even opened the floppy cardboard box he’d handed her. She hadn’t really thought she’d be hungry when she’d asked for a pink frosted, but she could suddenly taste the sugar, the vanilla of the pastry, the urge to gobble the whole thing in two or three mannerless bites. She kept her hands on the cardboard lid, taking a deep breath. Acting like an adult.

“You don’t believe I got it, do you?” Sam said.

“What?”

“Your special pretty pink princess doughnut, that’s what.”

“No, it’s not that,” Ruth said quickly. It was always a dance with Sam, even when he was being nice. Nicer than she would have expected, but not, she admitted, nicer than she had hoped. It was funny, because she was fairly sure if she said any of it, he’d tell her nice was the last word that ever applied to him.

“Just open it, Ruth,” he said. Shrugged, as if he didn’t care but he was looking at her steadily. She fumbled a little with the box, saw the plastic pink gleam of the frosting, a big pastel O that looked like a six year old’s Platonic ideal of a doughnut. But it wasn’t what held her attention.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a fucking cruller is what it is,” Sam said, gesturing at the box. 

“But I didn’t ask for that,” she said. There were four other doughnuts, chocolate cake and glazed and a powdered sugar one that was bound to make a mess, not that his car was pristine. “Oh, that one’s yours, huh?”

“No, I don’t eat that crap. I got a black coffee, didn’t figure you’d want one,” he said. She refrained from saying she’d seen him eat a stale doughnut from the GLOW version of a craft table. He’d probably argue about it and there wasn’t any point in an argument now.

“But I don’t—”

“I got you a cruller, Ruth. Relax. I just thought you might want something less diabetic-coma-inducing later on,” he said.

“Oh. That was kind of you. Truly. You didn’t have to, it was really sweet of you,” she said, acting like she was taking about doughnuts and not the whole thing, the whole taking her to the clinic and staying and walking her out with a hand at her elbow, not joking at all as they walked through the door. Careful, like she deserved someone being careful around her. Of her.

“It’s not a big deal. You’d think no one ever bought you a fucking doughnut before in your life,” he said.

“Well, in Soviet Union, we do not eat such extravagant—” she began, striving for her regular Zoya voice but not quite managing it.

“Do you want to come to my place? To rest? Away from the girls?” he interrupted. “It’s a fucking dump, don’t say I didn’t warn you, but it’s not overrun with your co-workers screeching.”

She imagined spending the day on his couch (not his bed), watching whatever was on the TV, a ratty afghan covering her from lap to toe. Dozing off and waking up to hear him puttering around the kitchen or cursing to himself as he read the paper at the table. His dark eyes watching her and not feeling like she needed to say anything.

“It’s okay. I’ll tell Sheila I’m under the weather. She’s good at keeping people out of the room,” Ruth said.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam said.

“She’s a good egg,” she said and he laughed. A real laugh, one without any bitterness or coke behind it.

“What’re you now, Bertie Fucking Wooster? 

“You read PG Wodehouse?” she said.

“I read a lot of shit, Ruth, I’m not a fucking troll living under a bridge,” Sam retorted. “You gonna eat that doughnut or what?”

She picked it up and took a big bite. It was very sweet and she closed her eyes to focus on the intensity of the sugar, the sense of her body becoming hers again. She heard Sam start up the car, heard the even sound of his breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Haruki Murakami.
> 
> PG Wodehouse wrote the hilarious and very British Jeeves and Wooster books.


End file.
